


Landsailor

by lafillechanceuse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Action & Romance, Aravels, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, F/F, Fluff, joyrides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafillechanceuse/pseuds/lafillechanceuse
Summary: After a night of drinking, Merrill convinces Isabela to slip out of the Hanged Man for an unexpected joyride.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Settiai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Settiai/gifts).



“I thought about what you said earlier. About the sea.”

Merrill spoke delicately, swinging her legs back and forth from her seat atop the table. The atmosphere of the Hanged Man lived up to its namesake in the wee hours of the morning before closing time but not before sunrise. The regulars slept in their rooms, half the staff dozed off at their posts, and the rest of the lot sprawled wherever they could find a comfortable enough place to lay their heads. Aveline and Hawke leaned against each other in their chairs, heads touching, and a tiny stream of drool dribbling out of the corner of Hawke’s mouth.

Anders, smelling faintly of elfroot and pigeons with the slightest tinge of cat, had crawled under the table after their sixth round of Wicked Grace and a brew of deep mushrooms and deathroot that was banned in certain parts of Ferelden, mumbling something about fighting the darkspawn in the Deep Roads entrance beneath them. After the seventh round, he had collapsed and stayed there. His snore did battle with Varric’s, who was currently curled up in a chair, cuddling Bianca to his chest. In an uncharacteristic display of gracelessness, Sebastian had chosen the rather pedestrian route of resting his arms on the table and putting his head down on top of them. Fenris lay back in his chair, eyes closed, breathing softly. Looking over the table, a soft smile spread across Isabela’s face before she turned her attention back to Merrill.

“You did, huh?”

Isabela yawned and stretched, setting her tankard of water down on the table. Hawke snorted in her sleep at the sound.

“You said you miss it. Badly.”

“Like air,” she agreed. “Where are you going with this, kitten?”

“After I told you about our journey across the sea, I realized I’d left something out. I have been sailing before with my clan and enjoyed it. Just not in the way you’d think of it. It’s a little different.”

She hopped down from the table, eyes gleaming.

“And I’d like to show you now while we have the time.”

Interested, Isabela sat up in her chair.

“How’d your clan come by a boat? Do you hollow out tree trunks and cure the wood till it turns to ironbark?”

“Not precisely. It’s easier if I show you.”

They glanced back at the party.

“Not like we’re missing anything.”

Isabela grinned, rising like the sun.

“Let’s get out of here, kitten. I’ll make us something to put a spring in our step for the road.”

Later, shivering in the morning air as they approached the peaks of the Sundermont Mountains, Merrill pulled out one of the flasks Isabela had packed and opened it. Inhaling the steam, she scrunched up her nose.

“Is it like tea?”

“Somewhat. It’s Rivaini coffee beans ground up and steeped in hot water, then strained. I drink mine black, but I put sugar and cream in yours. It’s a bit of an acquired taste.”

Taking a sip, Merrill grimaced, eyes squinting shut.

“Eurgh— _oh_. Ooh.”

Isabela chuckled.

“What do you think?”

“I think Varric was wrong about the whiskey. _This_ ’ll put hair on my chest.”

“Not a brew for the faint of heart, but it keeps you awake for the long watch on a cold night.”

“Feels a bit like wyvern venom, with the kick it’s got.”

Cautiously, she tried it again.

“Won’t make you see through time, though, so that’s good.”

Isabela arched a brow at her.

“Kitten, I’m a little concerned.”

Merrill waved a hand dismissively. 

“Oh, it was only one time in Nevarra and we were fine afterwards. You’re not the only one who gets to have an adventure, you know. Mine just happened in Ferelden before the Blight and wasn’t nearly as exciting as yours.”

Isabela wondered at that, but saw the way her shoulders hunched and let it pass. In the distance, a lone figure stood by the entrance to the clearing where the Dalish camp, accompanied by a large aravel. Several halla grazed around it, grunting softly and occasionally nosing at each other in the predawn light.

“Aneth ara, Pol!”

Merrill chirped, rushing over to greet him with a hug.

Pol returned it, then rubbed his eyes blearily.

“It’s too early for this, lethallan.”

“Your sacrifices for the sake of our people are much appreciated,” Merrill said cheerfully, the halla crowding around her to sniff at her clothes and hair as she checked on their tack and adjusted it as necessary. One of them nosed at her shoulder and she paused to gently scratch between its horns.

“Our brethren in the city should get to see them at least once. Just have them back by sundown.”

He nodded to Isabela respectfully.

“The Keeper sends her best wishes to you all and hopes you continue to live well.”

“Same to you,” she replied, watching Merrill bounce ever so slightly on her heels while she cranked the mechanism to lift up the sails of the aravel and climb up in the rigging to check for damages. Her chest ached strangely at the sight. Nimble as a seasoned sailor, she bounded back over to Isabela, beaming.

“We’re ready. Hop up in front.”

Nodding to Pol, Isabela obeyed. Restlessly, the halla shuffled back and forth in their harnesses. Merrill clucked at them, then hugged Pol one last time before climbing up beside her and taking the reins.

“Dareth shiral, lethallin. We’ll see you soon.”

“Dareth shiral. Merrill…”

“Yes?”

Pol squeezed her hand gently, then let go, an undertone of uncertainty in his voice.

“Take care of yourself, lethallan. For all of us.”

Merrill nodded, a question lingering in her eyes, before briskly shaking it off and whistling to the halla to start. Carefully picking their way over the rocks around the camp, they settled into an easy trot once the mountains opened up to wide plains. Isabela’s index finger tapped restlessly on the top of her knee. This was not the joyride Merrill had promised her in the tavern, all sincerity and just a hint of mischief. She held her tongue until they came to the fork in the road they usually took to head back to Kirkwall.

“So, is this the end or—“

“Oh, no. We’re going a different way,” Merrill replied cheerfully and snapped the reins.

Taking the path to the left, the halla picked up speed. The aravel moved differently, Isabela noted. It glided over the deep, pitted ruts in the road that would rattle or upset an average cart or caravan with barely a wobble. She kicked herself for not having a look at the undercarriage, but the rhythm, the roll back and forth, the pitch forward, evoked her memories of riding a dinghy in shallow waters as a child, just off the shore near her mother’s house.

“I picked this path back to Kirkwall because of the hill we’re about to go down,” Merrill shouted over the wind. “You should go climb up in the rigging while it’s still smooth. It’ll be much harder once we’re underway.”

Isabela found handholds aplenty nocked in the wooden frames, anchoring herself between the two smallest sails.

“Am I blocking your wind?”

“No! You’re perfect. Hold on! Here we go!”

They plunged down the hillside, the hooves of the halla barely touching the ground. The wind whipped at Isabela’s hair and bandanna, blowing them straight back. If she closed her eyes, she could smell salt. Isabela leaned forward, into the current, grin spreading wide at the familiar sensation of the pitch and roll beneath her feet. Her laughter intertwined with the wind, growing louder the faster they barreled down. With a delighted shriek on the final dip, she sagged against the wooden frames as they hit flat ground again. Backs streaked with sweat, the halla gradually slowed to the same, slow pace from before.

Merrill’s grin when she climbed down from the rigging and sat on the bench threatened to split her face in half.

“Oh, I knew you’d like it.”

“I haven’t had that much fun in ages.”

Isabela agreed, leaning back against the bench. Feigning a need to stretch, she wrapped an arm around Merrill’s shoulders and looked incredibly pleased with herself when Merrill snuggled up into her touch. Looking up at her, Merrill let the reins go slack and gazed upon her with a tenderness that took her breath away.

“I know it’s not the same…but I’m glad I could help. And I’d like to keep helping, if that’s all right.”

“Is that how you’re asking me for a kiss?”

Merrill’s cheeks turned faintly pink.

“A bit more, actually. We’ll need to rest and my house is closer than the Hanged Man. We can leave this with the hahren at the alienage. You’re very… _well-traveled_ and I’d like to see what you could show me.”

Charmed, Isabela chuckled, swooping in to steal a kiss from her.

“Kitten, I’ll take you right up the Dales after we get some sleep. All you need to do is ask.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> I hope you've been having a good weekend. I've been writing like mad to keep my mind off of how sick I am, so I decided to try my hand at my favorite DA2 pairing for the first time, heavily inspired by Vienna Teng on repeat. Thank you for letting me be your creative partner in this exchange and I really hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
